Mortimer Lendilly
The God of Taxes went to visit poor Mortimer Lendilly, and he brought Saint Death along. Tax was all smiles that day, which was enough to cause Mort to quake in his boots and wet his collar with sweat, for the god had no fewer than five mouths and each of them were so well-armed with fangs that his teeth poked out from his green lips like the tips of spears over walls. He was dressed in a two-tone suit the color of wealth and sleepless nights, but his tie was undone and hung around his neck like a lazy snake, or the beginnings of a noose. Mortimer Lendilly knew without being told that it was a bad sign.
By contrast, Saint Death did not seem at all pleased. Though her facial expression was hidden by a thin cascade of mist dripping from a crown of dried flowers, he could tell she wasn't at peace: one of her hands restlessly clicked the beads of one of her necklaces together. Click click clink chatter went the beads, which had the peculiar effect of echoing in Mortimer's ears as the sound of dice rolling. Despite himself, he was fascinated by her long, thin fingers - they were lightly fuzzed with black hair, like a spider's legs. Her other hand held a shepherd's crook, at the end of which dangled a stone lantern that glowed blue. Mortimer noticed that she clutched her possession tightly.
He swallowed. Happy Tax and displeased Death together seemed to add up to an especially dire omen.
"Mortimer, Mortimer, my good friend!" crowed the God of Tax with some of his mouths. "My buddy, my brother-in-spirit, my ever-so-welcome pal!" Tax's eyes were, for one moment, solid green with holes punched out in the center, but then he blinked and Mortimer found himself staring into his own eyes. Tax's eyes were now human, pale blue with wrinkles around the edges.
Mortimer's mouth gaped open slightly, and his bottom lip began to quiver. He didn't know what to say.
"Call me Taxi," said the god generously. He gestured to the figure in scream-white beside him. "You recognize my dear robed friend, I'm sure. She needs no introduction, the vixen."
"Taxi?" Mortimer exclaimed without thinking. "That's so... so..." He stopped, realizing what he was about to say to one powerful entity in front of another, perhaps even more powerful deity.
Tax crossed his arms. "Yes?"
With no where to run to escape either of them, Mortimer said, in a voice small and tentative, "It's so... misleading. Sir." Neither visitor spoke, so he added, "So misleadingly gentle for you, sir. I mean that in the best way, of course, sir!" Mortimer would rather die than admit that it made him think of the god distracting people with a soft, sweet name when all he wanted to do was eat someone's face. Realizing where his thoughts turned, he glanced at Saint Death and shuddered.
To Mortimer's relief, rather than crushing him then and there, the god was doubled-over with laughter. It sounded like the rustle of stacks of papers collapsing - dry and quick and uncontrollable. Tax slapped his back and wiped rubbery tears from his eyes, which he flicked away like eraser debris.
IT WAS NOT THAT FUNNY, said Saint Death. Her voice seemed to come straight from Mortimer's bones. (All bones spoke for Death.)
The god inhaled sharply and waved this objection away. "Oh shush, you don't have a funny bone - or any bone, come to think of it - in your body, so you wouldn't know, silly walking sheet." Tax turned to Mortimer. "For that comment, my dear, dear friend, let me buy you a drink."
"Oh! Oh," sputtered the man, appalled by the idea, "really, sir, you needn't--"
"Nonsense! I know just the place. Best place for talking, too!"
With a snap of his fingers, Tax whisked himself and Mortimer out of the office. Saint Death sighed - it sounded like a breeze scratching itself on dead trees - and turned off the room's machinery before sinking into the ground to follow them. She always knew where everyone went. It came from knowing where everyone ended up, eventually.
*
Tax's favorite bar was in the middle of the desert, a place called In Rich's. Its walls were scratched with numerous tally marks, but Mortimer couldn't fathom what was being counted - customers served? regular drunks? people who had died from drinking their brews or from a fight? Mortimer found himself sitting at a booth, staring at an ant that was crawling around the table rather than Tax's face. In the center of the table were six electrical sockets, but In Rich's was clearly not a place where people came to work on their computers so Mortimer couldn't imagine their purpose. Tax was amusing himself by trying to wedge his fingers into the holes. He was talking, but Mortimer was so terrified that he couldn't focus on what Tax was droning on about, and if Tax didn't care that Mortimer was unresponsive, it meant that Tax's conversation was, for the moment, inconsequential.
Then Saint Death was suddenly there, seated between Tax and Mortimer, her crook nowhere to be seen. Tax paused his babbling to grin three of his mouths at his partner, then gestured to the bartender.
"S-sir," began Mortimer.
Tax's smiles were feral. The sight made him pause. "Drinks first, my impatient friend," Tax said. "Then-- business." The smiles were gone, but Mortimer didn't feel any better. And then he began talking again, often responding to one of his mouths with a different mouth. Saint Death said nothing; she was once again playing with her necklaces.
Business. Mortimer felt as if his heart had both jumped up in fright to lodge in his throat and become heavy as lead to fall into his gut. He knew, without any doubt whatsoever, what business Tax wanted to discuss, and he also suspected he knew why Saint Death had come along.
But she seemed displeased by the God of Taxes for whatever reason, and Mortimer hoped it was because she was found him unsavory, or perhaps detested her role in this. If she was bored, even better; that meant she would pay attention to anything interesting.
Mortimer swallowed, wondering if he dared to speak to Saint Death. But there was no other choice. Saint Death could not be deterred from her duty, but she was capable of pity. Tax would never grant him forbearance, but maybe Saint Death would give him mercy. It was the best he could hope for, now.
He looked around the table until he found the ant scout. Trying to look as casual as possible, he crushed it with his thumb. A single grain-sized glimmer of white light rose out of the ant and floated towards the dead crown on Saint Death, who had slightly angled her head towards Mortimer.
Ma'am?
JUST DEATH, said Saint Death, speaking from the bones of his inner ears. It tickled, but if it meant Tax couldn't overhear them, then Mortimer would cope.
He didn't even know where to begin--
AT THE BEGINNING?
One night, on his way home from a twelve-hour day at work, Mortimer met a strange person at the crossroads.
Mortimer had assumed he was dealing with the Devil. Just like in the tales, the fellow was monstrous yet still wore an impeccable suit, and he was met at the crossroads. When Mortimer found out - too late! he'd already signed the contracts! - that he was dealing with the God of Taxes and not the Devil, he had fainted. The Devil could be tricked or goaded into an all-or-nothing contest, so he was, in a way, beatable. Nobody cheated Tax out of his dues.
THEY BOTH HAVE TERRIBLE FASHION SENSE, Saint Death said. WHEN DID YOU REALIZE WHO HE WAS? HE RARELY RIDES HIS BOAR, UOMI, ANYMORE. THAT IS USUALLY THE FIRST CLUE.
The fellow had asked to sign the contract in blood. At first Mortimer found nothing out of place with that; of course infernal contracts had to be signed in blood. What struck Mortimer as suspicious was the fact that the stranger had pulled out an abacus to calculate exactly how much blood needed to be drawn, and then had added a surcharge for the cost of the contract. He asked Mortimer to catch a pheasant and cut its throat, and when the blood fell the creature licked its lips and shuddered.
The God of Taxes was once, long ago, the Overseer of Tributes, and his idea of payment was often very base - sacrifices, virgins left on lonely rock outcroppings, gold, feasts. Nowadays, as his purpose transformed to fit the needs of his believers, he usually only accepted money, but it didn't mean he didn't enjoy the old gift, especially if it involved blood. The Oldest Gods were all like that, if legends were true. But the Devil would have asked him to prick his finger to sign with his own blood, or handed him a golden quill to use. The Devil would not have pulled out an abacus.
When Mortimer had woken up from his faint, he found himself back home again, his family crowded around him anxiously. He still clutched the dead pheasant in his hand, which was pried from his fingers and then eaten for dinner.
AH-HA, said Saint Death, as if something had become clear to her.
A waitress carrying a tray of three glasses came up to them. Mortimer was not surprised that she took no notice of who was seated at the table, as if she served the God of Taxes and Saint Death all the time, and it occurred to him that perhaps that was true. He looked around the bar now, wondering what other deities were here, hoping that maybe it would be someone who could offer him salvation. But he recognized nobody. Perhaps to the waitress, Tax and Death appeared human.
She set a glass in front of each of them. Tax held up a coin for her. She smiled timidly at him and took it, then walked away.
"Would have given her two, but I would have had to collect one of them later anyway," Tax said to them, shrugging. "Now, then, first things first, have you ever had electric drinks before, Morty-More? I suspect not, but it pays to double-check!"
Mortimer shook his head, examining the drink before him. It looked to him like a dark beverage - beer perhaps, or cider, if he was lucky. Curiously, on one side of the glass there was a coil of cable, thin as a rat tail, at the end of which there was a plug. Just as he connected the purpose of the sockets in the center of the table with the name "electric drinks," Tax showily unraveled his drink's cable and plugged it into the center of the table. Mortimer's eyes widened when he noticed that it wasn't the glass that lit up, but the liquid. It was glowing golden as honey now, and it was bubbling and foaming.
"Go on! Guests always take the first drink," Tax said, leaning forward eagerly to watch.
Hesitantly, Mortimer plugged his glass into the table, watched as his drink lit up, and then picked it up. The glass was still cool, cold even, which was probably a blessing in this desert. Even as he tilted his head back, his lips began to tingle, and Mortimer knew that he would not enjoy drinking it at all. It was like drinking static shocks, like drinking soured lightning, and it made his blood buzz as if his heart pumped bees. He took one swallow, then began coughing and shaking hard.
When his fit had passed, Tax chuckled (it sounded like coins clapping against each other) and raised his glass to sip from it from each mouth. "It does take some getting used to, buddy," he said. "Some prefer bubbly, but me, I prefer electric." Mortimer glanced at Saint Death to see how she would drink through her mist veil, but noticed that her glass was empty. Tax followed his look and chuckled again. "Oh, dearest Death her never drinks on the job, and since she's always on the job, she's never any fun at parties."
I AM NEVER INVITED TO PARTIES, said Saint Death -- out loud, through all of Mortimer's bones, rather than just his smallest ones in a private whisper.
Tax winked at Mortimer. "And who would invite Death into their house? It's just sense."
Saint Death sighed, and Mortimer yelped when a chill ran down his spine.
Tax cleared his throat. He pulled a giant notebook from his pocket and opened it. "Now, then, down to nasty ol' business, I'm afraid." He began flipping pages.
Mortimer glanced at Saint Death again.
YOUR DEBTS ARE ALSO YOUR FAMILY'S DEBTS BECAUSE THEY SHARED THE PHEASANT, said his ears to him. After the buzzing of the electric drink, the tickling sensation was, if not pleasant, at least preferable. He resisted rubbing his ears.
Yes. Of course, Mortimer suspected that they would have had to share his debts anyway, regardless of whether or not the pheasant ended up a family meal. But they didn't deserve to share his fate. We've tried everything. Tax's acolytes, the financial counselors, have helped us as much as they could, but there's no more loopholes except for the ones that would become our nooses.
"...and boy, was I surprised, indeed, shocked when it turned out that you had turned in your pretty daughters for an extension..." Tax didn't seem to notice that Mortimer wasn't responding. That didn't surprise or shock him; Tax had a lot to say and often talked volumes if allowed to.
YOU TRADED YOUR CHILDREN IN? Saint Death didn't sound outraged, just curious; being Death, she obeyed only her own rules, not morality, and judged no one.
No, never, Mortimer thought, gulping, I...
"...but the biggest shock of all happened when it was discovered that they were fakes! You made fake women - just dolls! The fine for that..."
YOU ATTEMPTED FRAUD TO ESCAPE TAX?
Mortimer caught himself about to nod sheepishly, and thought, Yes. I-I was desperate. I still am. Desperate.
"In total, my handsome friend Mortimer, you owe me--" The God of Taxes was scribbling in his ledger, adding sums. "You owe me, lessee, your wife, your father-in-law, a hundred years of service as acolytes from those daughters, and three of your reincarnations as my secretary. Oh, oops. Forgot about the skins of your two sons. Can't forget those."
TAX AND I HAVE ONE THING IN COMMON IN THIS SITUATION. WE WOULD BOTH TAKE FROM YOU... EVERYTHING.
Mortimer gulped. You... you only take from me, and me alone. He... would take everything.
Saint Death said nothing. She touched her glass with one of her spider's-leg fingers, and Mortimer shrank back when the glass turned into sand.
"Morty."
Mortimer looked up slowly. Although the God of Taxes had said it plainly enough, without raising his voice, the implied menace behind the single word was enough. Tax was staring at him, a smirk on a couple of his mouths, clearly awaiting for an answer.
ARE YOU READY, MORTIMER LENDILLY? She had spoken out loud, and the God of Taxes was frowning.
He took a deep breath and thought of his family, the people who had gone into hiding and left behind their comfortable lives in order to run from Tax.
"Y-yesssss," he whispered, turning to Saint Death.
Saint Death parted her veil of mist, and Mortimer Lendilly stared at her face and heard himself scream.
Without thinking, he stood up from the table and ran out of In Rich's. As soon as he was in the middle of the dusty street, he saw that it was dark and raining. There was roar rushing towards him. Mortimer barely had enough time to turn around and see as a flood raced towards him, picked him up in its wave, and then swept him away so powerful that he was smashed into the wall. The icy water covered his head and seemed to force itself into his throat.
*
At the door, Saint Death stood with her shepherd's crook. The rain was clearing, although the streets were still muddy from the freak flash flood. It was very rare to die by by drowning in the desert.
"Why did you do that, Deathy?" The God of Taxes was behind her, and he was frowning. "You were supposed to sit on his other side, to keep him between a rock and a hard place! All you had to do was sit there and let your reputation make him choose obeying me over death! This is why you're never invited to parties, sweetheart!"
She didn't look at him, only at the wall where the body lay crumpled. It was none of her business how it would be buried. Probably his family would never know where he went, or even that he'd died. Oh well, that was life, er, death.
I AM NEVER INVITED TO PARTIES, said Saint Death, BECAUSE SENSIBLE PEOPLE DO NOT WILLINGLY INVITE DEATH INTO THEIR HOMES, IT IS AGAINST NATURE TO DO SO. AND I AM, AFTER ALL, TERRIFYING. Saint Death was honest, for she did not know how else to be but herself.
"I never thought he'd pick you over me," the God of Taxes muttered. He pulled out his notebook again and crossed out Mortimer's debt to him. "Oh well, less paperwork for me," he said cheerfully. "See you around, Death m'love!" He snapped his fingers and disappeared.
Saint Death extended her crook towards the corpse. There was a light freeing itself from the grotto of Mortimer's mouth, flying free to hover anxiously by his head: a moth, a soul. The stone lantern's light grew brighter, its blue glow taking the silhouettes of flowers and vines. The moth fluttered towards the light.
Notes:
Written in roughly 3 hours.
Apologies to Terry Pratchett.
By contrast, Saint Death did not seem at all pleased. Though her facial expression was hidden by a thin cascade of mist dripping from a crown of dried flowers, he could tell she wasn't at peace: one of her hands restlessly clicked the beads of one of her necklaces together. Click click clink chatter went the beads, which had the peculiar effect of echoing in Mortimer's ears as the sound of dice rolling. Despite himself, he was fascinated by her long, thin fingers - they were lightly fuzzed with black hair, like a spider's legs. Her other hand held a shepherd's crook, at the end of which dangled a stone lantern that glowed blue. Mortimer noticed that she clutched her possession tightly.
He swallowed. Happy Tax and displeased Death together seemed to add up to an especially dire omen.
"Mortimer, Mortimer, my good friend!" crowed the God of Tax with some of his mouths. "My buddy, my brother-in-spirit, my ever-so-welcome pal!" Tax's eyes were, for one moment, solid green with holes punched out in the center, but then he blinked and Mortimer found himself staring into his own eyes. Tax's eyes were now human, pale blue with wrinkles around the edges.
Mortimer's mouth gaped open slightly, and his bottom lip began to quiver. He didn't know what to say.
"Call me Taxi," said the god generously. He gestured to the figure in scream-white beside him. "You recognize my dear robed friend, I'm sure. She needs no introduction, the vixen."
"Taxi?" Mortimer exclaimed without thinking. "That's so... so..." He stopped, realizing what he was about to say to one powerful entity in front of another, perhaps even more powerful deity.
Tax crossed his arms. "Yes?"
With no where to run to escape either of them, Mortimer said, in a voice small and tentative, "It's so... misleading. Sir." Neither visitor spoke, so he added, "So misleadingly gentle for you, sir. I mean that in the best way, of course, sir!" Mortimer would rather die than admit that it made him think of the god distracting people with a soft, sweet name when all he wanted to do was eat someone's face. Realizing where his thoughts turned, he glanced at Saint Death and shuddered.
To Mortimer's relief, rather than crushing him then and there, the god was doubled-over with laughter. It sounded like the rustle of stacks of papers collapsing - dry and quick and uncontrollable. Tax slapped his back and wiped rubbery tears from his eyes, which he flicked away like eraser debris.
IT WAS NOT THAT FUNNY, said Saint Death. Her voice seemed to come straight from Mortimer's bones. (All bones spoke for Death.)
The god inhaled sharply and waved this objection away. "Oh shush, you don't have a funny bone - or any bone, come to think of it - in your body, so you wouldn't know, silly walking sheet." Tax turned to Mortimer. "For that comment, my dear, dear friend, let me buy you a drink."
"Oh! Oh," sputtered the man, appalled by the idea, "really, sir, you needn't--"
"Nonsense! I know just the place. Best place for talking, too!"
With a snap of his fingers, Tax whisked himself and Mortimer out of the office. Saint Death sighed - it sounded like a breeze scratching itself on dead trees - and turned off the room's machinery before sinking into the ground to follow them. She always knew where everyone went. It came from knowing where everyone ended up, eventually.
*
Tax's favorite bar was in the middle of the desert, a place called In Rich's. Its walls were scratched with numerous tally marks, but Mortimer couldn't fathom what was being counted - customers served? regular drunks? people who had died from drinking their brews or from a fight? Mortimer found himself sitting at a booth, staring at an ant that was crawling around the table rather than Tax's face. In the center of the table were six electrical sockets, but In Rich's was clearly not a place where people came to work on their computers so Mortimer couldn't imagine their purpose. Tax was amusing himself by trying to wedge his fingers into the holes. He was talking, but Mortimer was so terrified that he couldn't focus on what Tax was droning on about, and if Tax didn't care that Mortimer was unresponsive, it meant that Tax's conversation was, for the moment, inconsequential.
Then Saint Death was suddenly there, seated between Tax and Mortimer, her crook nowhere to be seen. Tax paused his babbling to grin three of his mouths at his partner, then gestured to the bartender.
"S-sir," began Mortimer.
Tax's smiles were feral. The sight made him pause. "Drinks first, my impatient friend," Tax said. "Then-- business." The smiles were gone, but Mortimer didn't feel any better. And then he began talking again, often responding to one of his mouths with a different mouth. Saint Death said nothing; she was once again playing with her necklaces.
Business. Mortimer felt as if his heart had both jumped up in fright to lodge in his throat and become heavy as lead to fall into his gut. He knew, without any doubt whatsoever, what business Tax wanted to discuss, and he also suspected he knew why Saint Death had come along.
But she seemed displeased by the God of Taxes for whatever reason, and Mortimer hoped it was because she was found him unsavory, or perhaps detested her role in this. If she was bored, even better; that meant she would pay attention to anything interesting.
Mortimer swallowed, wondering if he dared to speak to Saint Death. But there was no other choice. Saint Death could not be deterred from her duty, but she was capable of pity. Tax would never grant him forbearance, but maybe Saint Death would give him mercy. It was the best he could hope for, now.
He looked around the table until he found the ant scout. Trying to look as casual as possible, he crushed it with his thumb. A single grain-sized glimmer of white light rose out of the ant and floated towards the dead crown on Saint Death, who had slightly angled her head towards Mortimer.
Ma'am?
JUST DEATH, said Saint Death, speaking from the bones of his inner ears. It tickled, but if it meant Tax couldn't overhear them, then Mortimer would cope.
He didn't even know where to begin--
AT THE BEGINNING?
One night, on his way home from a twelve-hour day at work, Mortimer met a strange person at the crossroads.
Mortimer had assumed he was dealing with the Devil. Just like in the tales, the fellow was monstrous yet still wore an impeccable suit, and he was met at the crossroads. When Mortimer found out - too late! he'd already signed the contracts! - that he was dealing with the God of Taxes and not the Devil, he had fainted. The Devil could be tricked or goaded into an all-or-nothing contest, so he was, in a way, beatable. Nobody cheated Tax out of his dues.
THEY BOTH HAVE TERRIBLE FASHION SENSE, Saint Death said. WHEN DID YOU REALIZE WHO HE WAS? HE RARELY RIDES HIS BOAR, UOMI, ANYMORE. THAT IS USUALLY THE FIRST CLUE.
The fellow had asked to sign the contract in blood. At first Mortimer found nothing out of place with that; of course infernal contracts had to be signed in blood. What struck Mortimer as suspicious was the fact that the stranger had pulled out an abacus to calculate exactly how much blood needed to be drawn, and then had added a surcharge for the cost of the contract. He asked Mortimer to catch a pheasant and cut its throat, and when the blood fell the creature licked its lips and shuddered.
The God of Taxes was once, long ago, the Overseer of Tributes, and his idea of payment was often very base - sacrifices, virgins left on lonely rock outcroppings, gold, feasts. Nowadays, as his purpose transformed to fit the needs of his believers, he usually only accepted money, but it didn't mean he didn't enjoy the old gift, especially if it involved blood. The Oldest Gods were all like that, if legends were true. But the Devil would have asked him to prick his finger to sign with his own blood, or handed him a golden quill to use. The Devil would not have pulled out an abacus.
When Mortimer had woken up from his faint, he found himself back home again, his family crowded around him anxiously. He still clutched the dead pheasant in his hand, which was pried from his fingers and then eaten for dinner.
AH-HA, said Saint Death, as if something had become clear to her.
A waitress carrying a tray of three glasses came up to them. Mortimer was not surprised that she took no notice of who was seated at the table, as if she served the God of Taxes and Saint Death all the time, and it occurred to him that perhaps that was true. He looked around the bar now, wondering what other deities were here, hoping that maybe it would be someone who could offer him salvation. But he recognized nobody. Perhaps to the waitress, Tax and Death appeared human.
She set a glass in front of each of them. Tax held up a coin for her. She smiled timidly at him and took it, then walked away.
"Would have given her two, but I would have had to collect one of them later anyway," Tax said to them, shrugging. "Now, then, first things first, have you ever had electric drinks before, Morty-More? I suspect not, but it pays to double-check!"
Mortimer shook his head, examining the drink before him. It looked to him like a dark beverage - beer perhaps, or cider, if he was lucky. Curiously, on one side of the glass there was a coil of cable, thin as a rat tail, at the end of which there was a plug. Just as he connected the purpose of the sockets in the center of the table with the name "electric drinks," Tax showily unraveled his drink's cable and plugged it into the center of the table. Mortimer's eyes widened when he noticed that it wasn't the glass that lit up, but the liquid. It was glowing golden as honey now, and it was bubbling and foaming.
"Go on! Guests always take the first drink," Tax said, leaning forward eagerly to watch.
Hesitantly, Mortimer plugged his glass into the table, watched as his drink lit up, and then picked it up. The glass was still cool, cold even, which was probably a blessing in this desert. Even as he tilted his head back, his lips began to tingle, and Mortimer knew that he would not enjoy drinking it at all. It was like drinking static shocks, like drinking soured lightning, and it made his blood buzz as if his heart pumped bees. He took one swallow, then began coughing and shaking hard.
When his fit had passed, Tax chuckled (it sounded like coins clapping against each other) and raised his glass to sip from it from each mouth. "It does take some getting used to, buddy," he said. "Some prefer bubbly, but me, I prefer electric." Mortimer glanced at Saint Death to see how she would drink through her mist veil, but noticed that her glass was empty. Tax followed his look and chuckled again. "Oh, dearest Death her never drinks on the job, and since she's always on the job, she's never any fun at parties."
I AM NEVER INVITED TO PARTIES, said Saint Death -- out loud, through all of Mortimer's bones, rather than just his smallest ones in a private whisper.
Tax winked at Mortimer. "And who would invite Death into their house? It's just sense."
Saint Death sighed, and Mortimer yelped when a chill ran down his spine.
Tax cleared his throat. He pulled a giant notebook from his pocket and opened it. "Now, then, down to nasty ol' business, I'm afraid." He began flipping pages.
Mortimer glanced at Saint Death again.
YOUR DEBTS ARE ALSO YOUR FAMILY'S DEBTS BECAUSE THEY SHARED THE PHEASANT, said his ears to him. After the buzzing of the electric drink, the tickling sensation was, if not pleasant, at least preferable. He resisted rubbing his ears.
Yes. Of course, Mortimer suspected that they would have had to share his debts anyway, regardless of whether or not the pheasant ended up a family meal. But they didn't deserve to share his fate. We've tried everything. Tax's acolytes, the financial counselors, have helped us as much as they could, but there's no more loopholes except for the ones that would become our nooses.
"...and boy, was I surprised, indeed, shocked when it turned out that you had turned in your pretty daughters for an extension..." Tax didn't seem to notice that Mortimer wasn't responding. That didn't surprise or shock him; Tax had a lot to say and often talked volumes if allowed to.
YOU TRADED YOUR CHILDREN IN? Saint Death didn't sound outraged, just curious; being Death, she obeyed only her own rules, not morality, and judged no one.
No, never, Mortimer thought, gulping, I...
"...but the biggest shock of all happened when it was discovered that they were fakes! You made fake women - just dolls! The fine for that..."
YOU ATTEMPTED FRAUD TO ESCAPE TAX?
Mortimer caught himself about to nod sheepishly, and thought, Yes. I-I was desperate. I still am. Desperate.
"In total, my handsome friend Mortimer, you owe me--" The God of Taxes was scribbling in his ledger, adding sums. "You owe me, lessee, your wife, your father-in-law, a hundred years of service as acolytes from those daughters, and three of your reincarnations as my secretary. Oh, oops. Forgot about the skins of your two sons. Can't forget those."
TAX AND I HAVE ONE THING IN COMMON IN THIS SITUATION. WE WOULD BOTH TAKE FROM YOU... EVERYTHING.
Mortimer gulped. You... you only take from me, and me alone. He... would take everything.
Saint Death said nothing. She touched her glass with one of her spider's-leg fingers, and Mortimer shrank back when the glass turned into sand.
"Morty."
Mortimer looked up slowly. Although the God of Taxes had said it plainly enough, without raising his voice, the implied menace behind the single word was enough. Tax was staring at him, a smirk on a couple of his mouths, clearly awaiting for an answer.
ARE YOU READY, MORTIMER LENDILLY? She had spoken out loud, and the God of Taxes was frowning.
He took a deep breath and thought of his family, the people who had gone into hiding and left behind their comfortable lives in order to run from Tax.
"Y-yesssss," he whispered, turning to Saint Death.
Saint Death parted her veil of mist, and Mortimer Lendilly stared at her face and heard himself scream.
Without thinking, he stood up from the table and ran out of In Rich's. As soon as he was in the middle of the dusty street, he saw that it was dark and raining. There was roar rushing towards him. Mortimer barely had enough time to turn around and see as a flood raced towards him, picked him up in its wave, and then swept him away so powerful that he was smashed into the wall. The icy water covered his head and seemed to force itself into his throat.
*
At the door, Saint Death stood with her shepherd's crook. The rain was clearing, although the streets were still muddy from the freak flash flood. It was very rare to die by by drowning in the desert.
"Why did you do that, Deathy?" The God of Taxes was behind her, and he was frowning. "You were supposed to sit on his other side, to keep him between a rock and a hard place! All you had to do was sit there and let your reputation make him choose obeying me over death! This is why you're never invited to parties, sweetheart!"
She didn't look at him, only at the wall where the body lay crumpled. It was none of her business how it would be buried. Probably his family would never know where he went, or even that he'd died. Oh well, that was life, er, death.
I AM NEVER INVITED TO PARTIES, said Saint Death, BECAUSE SENSIBLE PEOPLE DO NOT WILLINGLY INVITE DEATH INTO THEIR HOMES, IT IS AGAINST NATURE TO DO SO. AND I AM, AFTER ALL, TERRIFYING. Saint Death was honest, for she did not know how else to be but herself.
"I never thought he'd pick you over me," the God of Taxes muttered. He pulled out his notebook again and crossed out Mortimer's debt to him. "Oh well, less paperwork for me," he said cheerfully. "See you around, Death m'love!" He snapped his fingers and disappeared.
Saint Death extended her crook towards the corpse. There was a light freeing itself from the grotto of Mortimer's mouth, flying free to hover anxiously by his head: a moth, a soul. The stone lantern's light grew brighter, its blue glow taking the silhouettes of flowers and vines. The moth fluttered towards the light.
Notes:
Written in roughly 3 hours.
Apologies to Terry Pratchett.